


Have You Seen This Man?

by crocs (orphan_account)



Category: House M.D.
Genre: M/M, Pre-Series, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-15 09:33:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21251222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/crocs
Summary: There's nothing comfortable about being under the hot shower for twenty minutes, but you don't want to come out any time soon. The truth is this: there's nothing comfortable but there is something comforting, something that makes you not want to leave.(Pre-Season 1. On his first day as House's fellow, Chase's past and present collide.)





	Have You Seen This Man?

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own _House MD_.
> 
> Warnings: Religious guilt, internalised and external period-typical homophobia and its effects, mentions of suicidal tendencies.

He’s called himself Adam.

He’s already eaten the apple — it bobs in his throat. You tell him you’re a doctor. It’s not a lie, not really — you’ve just started your residency, your father was a doctor, and, try as you might, you can’t get away from him.

From that.

“I’m Adam,” he says, over Depeche Mode. _Personal Jesus_.

You nod. You pretend you haven’t heard him say this to different men every night. You pretend he hasn’t been watching you since you first came in, last week.

“Adam,” you say. The word curls up and around your tongue. “Like in the Bible.”

Adam tilts his head. “You’re not from around here. Tell me. Are you a god-fearing man, uh —”

“— Robert.”

“Are you a god-fearing man, Robert?” Adam signals the bartender. You’re too buzzed to tell what it’s for. The tab, maybe.

“Not tonight,” you say, rosary beads forgotten. It almost sounds right.

* * *

“— You’d do anything for the job. Would you sleep with me?”

You splutter. “Dr. House, that is —”

“Ignoring the truth,” House calls. He whacks your leg lightly with his cane. He’s perched on the wooden desk. “Hey, Russell Crowe. I need people that can act on demand. You need to trust your instincts, even if they’re garbage. Otherwise I _will_ fire you.”

“Does that mean I have the job?”

House stage-gasps. He slaps a hand over his heart. “Chase! Is that a confession? I don’t have one of those little box thingies with the sliding doors yet, but to make you feel at home I _will_ be the priest in this —”

“You’re an atheist,” you point out. Then you sigh. “…It’s called a confessional, by the way.”

House taps his nose. Instead of replying verbally, he looks over your shoulder and does a jaunty wave at whoever’s looking through the glass.

You turn.

Standing there is a woman — dark, curly hair — Dr. Cuddy, you recognise. She bursts into House’s office.

House clicks his tongue. “Haven’t you ever heard of _knocking?”_

_“_Haven’t you ever heard of sticking to your own office?” Cuddy says. House huffs. “Get off of my desk!”

House pouts. “This hospital is no fun,” he complains. He taps you with the cane again. “You heard her, wombat. Up.”

Even as you stand, Cuddy drags the chair out from under you. “I’m Dr. Chase —”

“I don’t care,” Cuddy says to you. She presses a file into House’s hands. “New patient down in Oncology.”

House flips over the file in his hands. “Why didn’t you ask Wilson?”

“I did,” Cuddy says. She moves closer to House, as if drawn magnetically to him. You don’t know if she’s noticed. “He said you’ve been antsy lately.”

House rolls his eyes.

Then he grabs his coat and walks out, leaving you standing, alone, awkwardly in the middle of Cuddy’s office.

Before you can react, though, he sticks his head back through. “Are you coming?”

You hurry after him.

* * *

“Nice place.”

“Better than yours.”

“Screw off,” you say. “You’re just jealous.”

Adam grins lazily at you in the bedroom mirror. He’s still under the covers.

He’s watching you as you pull on your clothes — you’re doing it as slowly as possible. It’s futile, maybe, trying to bask in the warm while you still can. In the clarity of six in the morning. In Adam.

Adam pushes forward, as close as he can get to you without getting out of the covers. He presses a kiss under your jaw. You shiver.

“Hey, call in sick?”

“I can’t,” you say. You turn your head. He still smells of aftershave. “Do my tie?”

Adam looks at you for a moment. His brown eyes assess you. He kisses you on the forehead. “Sure. Half-windsor?”

“Sure.”

Adam buttons you up a little bit more. He reaches for the tie that’s on the radiator — probably a health hazard — and slides it around your neck.

He could kill you.

He doesn’t. You’re not sure you deserve that.

* * *

“African-American male,” House says, now you’re in his _actual_ office. He scrawls something on a whiteboard. “Mid-twenties, cancer. Ooh, _lung_ cancer. Haven’t seen that one in a while.”

You lean forward in the uncomfortable plastic chair. His writing is wholly illegible.

“Lung cancer? Like, he’s a smoker?” You frown. “He’s in his mid-twenties, he’s not geriatric.”

“Ageism,” proclaims House, “I think. Anyway, thoughts?”

Confused, you point at yourself.

“Sorry, I was referring to my other, invisible fellows,” House says. He cups his ear. “What did you say, dear?”

“Okay, I get it,” you say, standing up. “I’ll go get patient history.”

House sneezes. You turn around in concern. “Sorry,” he sniffs, “I’m just —ah-_choo!_— allergic to idiots. You don’t _need_ patient history,” he emphasises. “We’ve got all we need right here.” He gestures to Cuddy’s file.

“That’s the bare bones,” you argue. “That’s not enough.”

House tilts his head. “And you think you’ll get anywhere by talking to him? Everybody lies.”

“Which is why you’ve got to learn how to pick out the truth,” you say. Then you pause. “…Which is what you wanted me to say, right?”

House nods. “At least you know _that,” _he says.

* * *

“My dad doesn’t know,” you say quietly, like you’re back in church. Your head is hung low enough for prayer.

Adam hums. “About me?”

“About me,” you say. “He doesn’t know that I like men.” _Still like men._

“And your mom?”

“She died when I was fifteen. Alcoholic,” you say.

Adam hisses. “I’m sorry,” he offers.

“Honestly?” You look out of the open restaurant door. The breeze is cold. “I don’t know if I am. Is that kind of bad?”

“Yeah, kind of,” Adam says. You look at him. He shrugs. “Hey, I don’t lie. Doesn’t make you awful, though. You’re a good person, Robert Chase.”

You raise an eyebrow. “I just said that I was fine with my mother being dead.”

“Feelings are complicated,” Adam says, “and besides, I know you. I know you well. If you don’t want your dad to be the same way, that’s fine.” He shrugs. “I’m just glad you were able to tell me how you felt.”

“Yeah, sure,” you say. You pick at your food. “When do I get to meet your family, then?”

Adam snorts.

“You don’t,” he says, finally.

_That’s that,_ you guess.

* * *

“Dr. Chase. How’s your first day working with House?”

You look up, fumbling. “Uh —”

“Dr. Wilson,” says Dr. Wilson. He smiles. It’s kind of heart-stopping. “I’m House’s best friend.”

“Nice to meet you,” you say. Then you pause. “Are you the Wilson that gave House the case?”

“It’s a small hospital,” Wilson says. He sits down on the bench next to you, where you’re having your lunch. “Seriously, though. Do I need to talk to him?”

You gesture lamely. “Is he always… like that?”

“You mean, does he have an off-button?” Wilson makes a considering face. “Not one that I’ve found.”

“Good to know,” you say. “Thanks.”

“Any time.” Wilson crosses his arms. “It’s really cold out here,” he comments. “Is there any reason you’re sat out here instead of inside?”

“I couldn’t find the cafeteria.”

“I’ll take you there,” he says.

* * *

You rub your eyes. “Where are you going?”

“Job interview,” Adam says. He’s dressed in a suit. He looks good. He snakes around you, grabs the coffee you’ve just made. “Thanks, babe.”

“No problem,” you groan. Your brain’s sore from looking at medical essays all night. “Put a new pot on for me?”

“I have to go,” you hear him say from somewhere out in the corridor. “Sorry.”

You groan theatrically. You do it yourself, walking back to your work. Adam pokes his head back through the archway between your kitchen-come-living room-come-office. “Hey,” he says.

“Hey.”

“I love you.”

You smile. “I love you too.”

Adam grins. He almost runs out of the apartment.

You wave out the window. He doesn’t notice as he calls a cab.

There’s a few minutes in-between him leaving and the doorbell going that you’re entirely sure that it’s just Adam, having forgotten something. His lunch, probably.

You open the door. “Adam —”

“Hi, son,” says Rowan Chase.

* * *

You walk with House down the hospital corridor to meet the patient.

“So, I met Wilson,” you say, trying to keep up with him. “Nice guy.”

House doesn’t slow down. “What, do you have a crush?”

“No,” you say, even though you kind of do. It’s a bit impossible not to, you justify. “How did you guys meet?”

“Ah, you know,” House says. “Wilson’s friends bet him that he couldn’t make me into a prom queen in six weeks. Then we took off my glasses and —”

“That’s just the plot of She’s All That,” you say, shaking your head.

“It’s an interesting parallel to my own life,” House snarks. He stops outside the door to the patient’s room. “Normally, I’d just be sending you on your own, but I figured I’d come along. Show you how useless it actually is to meet your patient when you’re busy saving their life.”

“You’re a doctor, you have to meet your patient,” you say.

House groans in response. “Ugh, I hate kids straight out of medical school,” he says, and leans heavily on the door handle. “_Hello!”_

_“_Uh,” says the guy on the bed. “Are you Dr. House?”

House nods. “And this is Dr. —”

You blink. _No. “_Adam?”

The man that looks like Adam stares back at you.

_Adam_, you repeat in your head, your brain reeling. It feels like it takes a lifetime, but he nods, looking for the world like he’s feeling exactly what _you’re_ feeling.

“Robert,” he says, voice thin, body hoarse, and you want to collapse. You feel faint, anyway. “Hey.”

House doesn’t say anything. Something tells you that that’s a bad thing. It sounds suspiciously like Dr. Wilson.

* * *

“I don’t understand,” your dad repeats. His hands shake as he traces the frame of you and Adam he’s picked up from the mantle. “You’re straight, son. You’re a godly man.”

“_I’m happy,”_ you try to say, but it doesn’t quite come out. Instead, you say: “Why are you here, Dad?”

He looks up, photo forgotten.

He grabs you at the shoulder.

“I wanted to see my son,” he says. It should be a warm statement. It’s not; it’s cold, and there’s a bitter undertone to it. It kind of makes you want to throw up.

You shake his hand off of you. “You’ve seen me,” you point out. “What now?”

“Why did you leave?” Rowan moves to touch you again. You weave out of his grasp. “You dropped out of seminary school, you didn’t tell _anyone_ about it, you got a _loan_ from the _bank_ —”

You snap. You don’t mean to, but you do.

“What did you expect me to do? Keep on spending every waking minute running between you and my mother? Be some kind of priest? I tried to help her. I tried to help you. I’m trying to help myself.” You breathe out, hotly. “I can’t do that where you are,” you say.

Rowan splutters.

“You _hated_ taking care of your mother,” he says. It’s a blow, alright, but it’s not untrue. “What, do you think it’ll be any different doing it for a job?”

“I don’t,” you say. “I really don’t.”

A dark laugh. “You’re being a martyr,” he says, every word a jab. “You’re twisted; you enjoy being hurt, don’t you?”

Your face screws up in anger. “Of course I don’t —”

“You think God’ll love you for taking on other people’s burdens?” Rowan continues, unaffected — unaffected by you. He shoots a look at the photo. “God hates you, son. And He loves you even more.”

_God hates you, _you register, dully. Before you lose your nerve completely, you swallow. “Get out of my apartment, Dad.”

“Or what?”

“I said,” you say, looking at him, “get out.”

…Rowan Chase leaves.

He leaves a mark.

He’s got a knack for doing that, you think. It’s one of the few thoughts you can parse out of the repeating rat-tat-tat of _God hates you, God hates you, God hates you._

You go to church on Sunday. You don’t tell Adam.

* * *

“He doesn’t smoke,” you say, when you both get back to the office. “Never has.”

“Just because he wasn’t a useless nicotine junkie when you guys were bumping uglies doesn’t mean he isn’t one now,” House says. You look at him in alarm. “I could smell the pheromones.”

“Are you going to tell anyone that —” you look down at your coffee, starting to stir it — “you can, uh, smell the pheromones?” Your heart is racing.

“Not unless you’re into that,” House says. It’s weirdly assuring. “Any other reasons why he’s born-again Cigarette Jesus?”

“His dad died,” you recall, calming down. “Lung cancer, actually.”

“That just tells me that Cigarette Jesus has a genetic disposition to be holy and holey,” House says. “Next.”

“But his dad didn’t smoke, either,” you say. It’s kind of a pathetic dangle, but —

House’s ears prick up. “_Really_,” he says. “Tell me, what kind of house did Cigarette Jesus grow up in?”

“His name’s Adam,” you say. It’s futile by now. “Um, an old one? Some kind of brownstone. I’ve never been there.”

“Old enough to have asbestos?”

You stop stirring your coffee. “You’re thinking of mesothelioma?” Sure, it was possible, but — “Adam’s twenty-five,” you say. “Like I said before we saw him, he’s not geriatric, House. It’s unlikely, even if he was exposed, that he’d even be presenting signs before he was in his sixties.”

“And you knew all that without seeing him,” House says. He writes _MESOTHELIOMA_ on the whiteboard. “Cigarette Jesus has chest pain,” he says, writing that underneath. “Whenever he coughs, it’s dry. He can’t breathe. What does that remind you of, again? Asbestos fiber causing lung scars?”

“_Stop being a dick,”_ you want to say. Your breathing isn’t level at all. “House, that could be anything. When you hear hooves, you don’t think zebras. You think —”

“Horses,” House finishes. “Chase, you’re doing a fellowship with a diagnostician who — shock, surprise — knows what he’s doing. You’ve got to be open to the savannah. Shoot a few striped thingies with hooves that aren’t horses.”

“Okay,” you say. “Okay. MRI?”

“MRI,” says House. You can feel his eyes on your back as you go.

* * *

_God hates you._

You fish out the rosary from the bottom of a cardboard box you haven’t touched since you moved in. It fits in your hand like it never left it; ghost images of Mary, Jesus and Peter on beads that you wrap around your hand and cling to.

They’re red. So are your eyes. It doesn’t really matter.

* * *

“You need to keep still,” you tell Adam.

Your hands are busy helping him lie down. It’s a perversion, maybe, of what you used to do — there’s some kind of callus from where you’ve done this before, in a more intimate setting than an exam room.

“My chest hurts,” Adam says. His fingers grasp at you. “Robert. Dr. Chase.”

“I know,” you say. It’s not quite as soothing as it should be. You know this, too. “I know, Adam. You’ve got to keep still.”

“Okay,” Adam says. His back hits the metal plate. “Jesus, that’s cold,” he mutters.

House is at the computers when you get away.

He points a pen at you. “Hey, when Cigarette Jesus takes his own name in vain, is it still blasphemy?”

“I don’t know,” you say. You sit down, turning to a screen. “Why don’t you ask a priest and find out?”

“I am,” says House. “What, don’t you think I know about you dropping out of seminary school? That’s the first piece of real gossip around here in months. I can finally stop my _Us Weekly_ subscription.”

_You dropped out of seminary school, you didn’t tell anyone about it, you got a loan from the bank —_

_“_Excuse me,” you say. “I need some air.”

* * *

_God hates you._

There’s nothing comfortable about being under the hot shower for twenty minutes, but you don’t want to come out any time soon. The truth is this: there’s nothing comfortable but there is something _comforting_, something that makes you not want to leave. The lie is that it’s Adam, who slips in behind you sometime during minute fifteen.

You are a stranger in your own skin. You need to wash yourself out.

It makes your skin raw.

* * *

In the end, House pages you.

He doesn’t mention anything about you basically running out of the room, which is good, you think. 

“It’s not looking good,” he says. 

Then he passes over the scans.

They’re on acetate. They smell of acetone. You know that they’ve been sterilised. It doesn’t feel like it, though, not when your eyes scan the lungs, looking for something — fibers, scars, tumors.

They’re there.

The voice that comes out of you doesn’t sound like you. “How long does he have?”

House takes the scans back. “Twelve months,” he says. “Six, maybe.”

It’s odd, feeling grief for a person that you haven’t seen in two years, a person that you know has evolved and probably grown past Adam-and-Robert just as you did. You’re not sad about the man two corridors down; you’re missing the man you lived with, the man you loved.

“I can tell him,” House offers. “I won’t give him a goodbye kiss, but — hey, maybe I will —”

You shake your head. You’re sure about this.

“No,” you say. “I have to do it.”

House nods. He gives you the bare-bones file. It feels heavy in your hands.

* * *

_God hates you._

_“_Are you okay?”

_No. “_Yeah, of course. You?”

Adam shakes his head. “You’re not, though,” he points out. “You’re not behaving like normal.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t,” you say. There’s a cross you’ve hidden behind the plant pots, here in the garden, where you’ve been working. It’s burning into your brain. “Maybe behaving like normal is what’s causing —”

Adam takes your hand. “What are you _talking_ about?”

Everything wants to spill out of you. You try to keep a lid on it and, of course, something overflows — tears burst in your eyes.

“I can’t,” you sob, repeat, even as Adam takes you into his arms. “I can’t tell you.”

Adam rubs your back. He breaks away, for a moment — he backs up ever so slightly on the bench. He takes you in — pathetic, sobbing — and his eyes soften.

“I…” He shakes his head. “If you can’t trust me, Robert, I — I think we shouldn’t go any further.”

You blink. “…Adam? Wait — no —”

“I’ll come for my stuff in the morning,” Adam says, over you. “This — I’m sorry.” He stands.

Adam leaves the garden.

…You watch him go. You have half a mind to follow. You don’t.

* * *

You push into Adam’s room.

His eyes are bleary, though whether it’s fatigue from the mesothelioma or from the drugs you can’t tell anymore. He clocks you the second time you smile at him. His hands waver. You tell yourself it’s a wave.

Adam breathes heavily. “Good news or bad news?”

You tell him.

“Oh,” says Adam. “How long?”

You tell him.

“Oh,” says Adam. “Right.”

“We’re going to need to biopsy you to be sure,” you continue. It’s important that he knows this. “They could be benign, it could be something else. We have to —”

“— Make sure,” Adam finishes. “Of course. That’s what you do.” He goes silent. The catheter in his throat looks like it’s choking him. “What if I said I’d rather not know?”

You frown. “Adam —”

“I can’t afford that,” he says. “I don’t have health insurance.”

_I could pay,_ you think, but then you remember most of your bills are being financed by your dad. “I mean, you can refuse,” you say, “but I wouldn’t recommend it.”

“I don’t want to know when I’m going to die, Robert,” Adam says. “Dr. Chase.”

You nod. “You were always stubborn,” you remember. You smile.

Adam chuckles. It sounds scratchy. “So were you. I didn’t know you were back in Jersey, by the way.”

“New job,” you say. “Started today. I’m doing a fellowship with that guy that came in earlier. With the cane?”

He wheezes. “Terrible timing, then, your ex coming in with tumors in his lungs. Must’ve scored you big points.”

“I think it did, actually,” you say. “No offence.”

“None taken,” Adam says. “Glad to help. …Tell me how your day went?”

You tell him. It shouldn’t be this easy, to slip back into this familiar routine — you can almost pretend that you’re still in your bottom-floor apartment, at the end of the day, drinking some no-name beer whilst watching something stupid on television. And you’re glad —

“Cigarette Jesus?”

“You know, because we thought you had lung cancer and you don’t smoke. It was either that or a Virgin Mary joke.”

— because it’s easy, because you can almost believe. In a perfect world, it wouldn’t have ended. But it did. And all you’re left with is yourself.

Adam falls asleep when you get to the bit about Wilson taking you to the caféteria. You leave as quietly as you can.

You need to pick up your things from the office. House is still there when you get there; he’s got a GameBoy Advance between his hands. You don’t recognise the sounds coming from it. It sounds a lot like Mario.

He’s listening to a music player that’s propped up on his desk next to his legs. Depeche Mode. _Personal Jesus._

House doesn’t look at you. “How’d he take it?”

“He doesn’t have health insurance,” you report. “He’s not having the biopsy.”

He raises an eyebrow. “He doesn’t have health insurance and yet he can afford an MRI?”

“Jesus.” You mentally kick yourself. You grab your bag. “Apparently,” you say, trying to keep the bitterness out of it. _Why didn’t you realise — _

“‘Jesus’, huh? What, while he’s in the other room?” House finally looks at you. “You really did leave the seminary, then?”

“I had a crisis of faith,” you say, rehearsed. _If you can say sleeping with the groundskeeper’s son a crisis. “_Besides, I don’t think God would like me that much.”

House nods.

“You’re right,” he says. “He doesn’t exist, so whether He likes you or not is Schrödinger’s insecure Doogie Howser.” You give him a look. He rolls his eyes. “You have been hanging out with Wilson. Anyway, even if He exists, which he doesn’t, it’s better to be hated. Trust me.”

“Speaking from experience?”

Despite the snark, House looks approving. Probably because of it, you think.

“It’s more fun,” he says. “Ask Wilson.”

You grab your bag. “Well —”

“You have the job, by the way,” House says. “Nice trial day.”

You pause. “Trial day?”

“Yeah,” House says. “What, did you think I was paying you?”

You resist the urge to flip him off. House looks disappointed. You can’t find it in yourself to care.

“_Your own Cigarette Jesus,”_ House croons along to the song. “_Someone to hear your prayers, someone who’s there… Feeling unknown and you’re all alone, flesh and bone by the telephone…”_

_“_See you tomorrow, then,” you say. House waves you away.

You leave the hospital. You go home.

_And He loves you even more._

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading!


End file.
